And I Fell Heavy Into Your Arms
by sleepyblaine
Summary: Anyone would be out of their minds to go out this late at night when it's below freezing and the street lights aren't functioning due to the heaviest rain London has had in years, but John isn't crazy—no, John is searching.


_A/N: don't laugh at me, I know I'm like two years too late. I found this on my phone today and the date it was last modified was the second of February 2013, so I probably wrote it and forgot to post it (which is like totally a regular thing for me). So I fixed it up and here we go: seven-hundred-or-so words of Johnlock angst set somewhere between Reichenbach and Empty Hearse! Enjoy, and just remember that everything's totally okay. :) _

_Title from I Will Wait by __**Mumford & Sons**__, because it's the most beautiful Johnlock song __ever__ and you're lying if you disagree. _

* * *

"Sherlock?"

John squints through the heavy rain that's hitting his body at the wrong angle and making it hard to run in a straight line. It stings, but John keeps going, dodges bins and trips over uneven pavements and comes across multiple dead ends that he should know well enough by now, but forgets in his desperate and hazy state.

"Sherlock?"

People peer at him out of their windows with incredulous looks—if John looks hard enough, he can see the words mouthed at him; words like _crazy_ and _mental_. He doesn't care, though, because every curtain pulled back gives him a little bit more light and right now, in the pitch black of the night, that's exactly what he needs.

Anyone would be out of their minds to go out this late at night when it's below freezing and the street lights aren't functioning due to the heaviest rain London has had in years, but John isn't crazy—no, John is searching.

"Sherlock?"

His feet skid over the pavement as he turns down yet another road, and although he can't see his hand in front of his face, he finally knows exactly where he's going. A thin rope draws him towards his destination, frail and shaking in the weather. His heavy footsteps are drowned out by the sound of the rain slamming into the road and every drain he passes sounds like an ocean is passing through it, gurgling and crashing by like a giant plug has been released. John takes no notice, though—he keeps running, and running, and running until he is sure he's close.

"Sher—"

His body ricochets off the iron gate, and for a second he's winded but when he catches his breath he stands up straight and frantically shakes the lock on the gate. Suddenly the wind whips up, throwing drenched leaves and twigs at him and they scratch his face and threaten to cruelly blind him with their sharp edges but pain doesn't bother John anymore. He's become immune to the feeling; he suffers it every day, and anything else he has to endure feels like a warm blanket compared to the pain that repeatedly stabs him in the everywhere whenever he's awake, which is more often than not.

With a frustrated cry that may or may not be Sherlock's name, he gives up on loosening the padlock and jumps the fence instead. He lands in a large puddle of mud, and for a second he contemplates just laying there forever, because despite the wind and the rain he's unusually warm and he has his jacket and it's really not that bad. But he has to keep going—he has to find Sherlock.

"Sherlock?"

John stands up, trips over and stands up again, keeps running even though there's a new annoying ache in his left ankle; runs and runs and runs until his hands grasp the slippery marble and the luminescent letters seem to glow in the moonlight. Falling to his knees, John wraps his arms around the stone, and then he's crying, screaming, thrashing around. _Anything would be better than this. Anything._ He digs his fingers into the saturated earth beneath his hands and rips it from it's place, hurling it into the darkness and hoping it hurts something even though he knows there's nothing there.

Why doesn't anyone else feel his pain? Why do they all try to go about their business like there's nothing wrong?

Despite the stinging rain and icy wind, John feels as if his whole body is on fire. It's anger, despair, loneliness, abandonment, neglect and utter hatred and John can't handle it; he turns his face towards the murky sky and lets out a piercing wail that's enough to break a prison guard's heart. Then his body slumps to the ground in front of the shiny stone and he gives up, then and there. The rope snaps and he's falling as a wave of sheer terror washes over him.

"_Sherlock_."

It's more of a plea than a query.


End file.
